Wayside
by Kim Who Knows
Summary: A tragedy in the north leads Peter and Edmund to war. But when a tragedy becomes something bigger, Narnia needs its missing kings.  On foreign soil, seperated from all they know, the brothers must survive...or doom all they love.
1. Chapter 1

_Goodness, this has taken longer than I expected. I mentioned writing a Narnia fic to elecktrum a couple weeks ago. Not until just now did I finish it. Anyhow, enjoy!_

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It was not so far, Lucy told herself. Not so far at all. Only down the hall, through the archway, up the stairs and then she was there. It was not the distance that dissuaded her, but what was _in _the distance. In the halls there were shadows; on the stairs there were spectors, dancing on the walls, wavering unsteadily in the flickering light of her candle. She lowered her blankets, which were pulled over her head, and peered about her. Her bedchamber, normally so cozy, seemed alien and strange to her without the light of day or the glow of tapers. The last thing she wanted was to leave her bed--which was, at least, relatively safe--and step into that vast darkness.

But she had only to make it to Peter's room. Only that far, and then she was safe. She could risk the shadows and the spectors for that long.

She took a moment, debating. It wasn't as though she was all alone. Her eyes turned to the bell that rested just within reach on her bedside table. One ring, and the sharp ears of the bobcat guard (his name started with an K, but that was all she could remember; he was new) would pick it up, and he would be by her side. But a bobcat was hardly the same as her brother. Her brother who had strong arms to hold her close and safe. With him, she couldn't be afraid. With every moment she spent thinking about Peter, the more frightening her room became, until at last she threw her bedcovers off and went scrambling for the door. The hallway had a few slender torches burning in hangings on the wall. That was good; she wouldn't have to carry her own candle.

"My queen?" Came a voice behind her, and she jumped, quite frightened. It was the bobcat. He approached from nowhere, seeming to come out of the shadows. He was large for his kind, and his claws were jutting out of his large paws. Lucy realized that perhaps, she had startled him into thinking that she was in some kind of trouble. His large, rounded eyes swept the hall for danger than raised them to stare at Lucy.

"Oh! I didn't mean to startle you." She said quickly. Bobcats were very nice, but a little intimidating. He wouldn't be angry at her, but it never hurt to apologize.

"That's quite all right, Queen Lucy." He sat down, pulling his claws back into his padded feet. "Might I enquire as to where you are going, your majesty?" Lucy decided she liked him. He spoke with a sense of dry humor that made him very amiable. But she wasn't sure just yet whether to tell him that his "queen" was frightened of the dark. Well, not really the dark; she had slept in that same room for months now without the slightest bit of fear. Now that she truly thought about it, Lucy wasn't sure what she was afraid of at all.

The bobcat seemed to understand her dilemma. "Shall I escort you somewhere, your majesty?"

"I should like that very much!" Lucy felt much better having someone to walk with.

"Where to, then, my lady?"

"To King Peter's room, please."

He smiled, revealing his delicately pointed teeth. "Of course, your highness." He was very nice, thought Lucy. Suddenly, it occurred to her she had neglected her manners.

"I am terribly sorry, but…I've forgotten your name." She said the last bit all in a rush of embarrasment.

"Kithlin, your majesty."

"Then thank you, Kithlin."

"Not at all, your majesty."

They had made it quite far down the hall now, and passed the other guard, a muscular hunting dog. He bowed as they came by, but did not speak. Going this way, they soon made it to the stairs, reaching the top quickly, and once they reached the next level of the Castle, there were more torches. The corridor was long, but Peter's door was very close to the stairs. Lucy let go of Kithlin's fur and said, "Thank you very much! You can go if you like."

Nilkins simply bowed and melted back into the shadows. There were guards in this corridor too, of course, because Peter _was _High King, and people in the castle seemed to be quite paranoid about it, but they were not lingering outside her brother's door like Nilkins had been outside hers. They were several yards away, and Lucy guessed that it was because Peter had told them not to hover. That made her smile. Her dear, stubborn brother. The guards, naturally, did not try to stop her as she pushed open the door and stepped in.

Peter's room was different from any of his siblings. Lucy's was full of color and large soft chairs that she could sit in. Susan's had a large closet and many shelves of books. Edmund's room had even more books than Susan, although it was nicely set off by a large collection of more military things. But while the other children's rooms were reflections of themselves, Peter's seemed almost bare in comparison. Of course he had the kind of things a king ought to have, like banners and mirrors and swords, but it was a very unlived-in space. Peter only slept there. His time was divided between politics and his family. There was hardly enough time for him to be alone in this room. In fact, probably no time. But Peter didn't seem to mind. He liked to be surrounded by people he was fond of. Lucy was sure he'd go mad if left to his own devices for more than a few days.

She approached Peter's bed from the right. It was a huge bed, big enough that it could (and had, on occaision) fit all four siblings with plenty of room to spare. She crawled as quietly as she could up onto one side, scooting forward slowly, feeling with her hands for the familiar shape of her brother.

She reached the other side without ever encountering it.

"Peter?" Lucy swallowed hard. She felt through the sheets again, cautiously this time, paying better attention. There was no denying it. Peter was not there. A lump came to her throat and she clutched the sheets tightly.

There was a serious risk of bursting into relieved tears when she felt Peter's hand come down soft on her shoulder. "Lucy?" He said. She turned around to look at him. Only his outline was visible, silhouetted in the light that came in from the balcony. His expression couldn't be determined.

"Peter! Where have you been?"

The bed groaned a little as Peter settled onto it. "I'm sorry, Lu. Have a bad dream?"

"No," she answered, quite honestly. "I was a bit frightened, that's all."

"Come to sleep in my room, that it?"

"Yes. But where have you been? I was looking for you."

"Are you wanting to go to bed right now?"

"I'm not tired anymore."

"Good, then. Come with me." He took her hand gently in his own and helped her down. With a start, Lucy realized that even Peter's hands had changed. Before Narnia, they had always been soft, but with a certain strength. Now, she could feel callouses in his palm, brought on, she supposed, by always hefting Rhindon about. In place of the simple strength of before, there was a fiercer power, and Lucy knew that if he squeezed as hard as he could, it would probably break a finger or two. But she knew he wouldn't squeeze too hard. Peter always knew exactly how gently to hold her hand.

They had reached the balcony, and a soft tapping noise was audible, just over the swishing of the wind. It took a moment, but at last, in the moonlight, Lucy could identify where the noise was coming from. "Oh, it's raining!" She cried. Rain in Narnia was very unlike rain anywhere else. It never came drenching from the skies, pouring in sheets, rather, it came in light, refreshing drops.

"Now look straight across there. Can you see them?"

"See what?"

"Just look, there, in the waves." Lucy could see nothing _but _the waves, cresting in the breeze, looking very majestic, but it was nothing she hadn't seen before. She gave her brother a quizzical look, and he nodded his head back at the sea. With a sigh, Lucy looked too, trying to follow her brother's eyes. It had just occurred to her that perhaps her brother was dreaming when a flash of color caught her eye. And suddenly, she could see them. Mermaids, dancing in and out of the water, barely visible unless you kept your eyes right on them.

"Oh, Peter! What are they doing?"

"It must be a dance. They're probably glad of the rain."

"Were you watching them before?"

"Only for a moment. Then I heard you in there, making a racket." Lucy nudged him and looked out.

There was a contented silence between them. The light from the moon was bright out here, and Lucy could see the sea better now. It was a strange dance the mermaids were doing. She looked up to see if Peter noticed. He hadn't. His eyes were on the stars, like they always were. After all, Aslan had dedicated the clear Northern sky to him. Up there, in the heavens…that was Peter's kingdom. He was always looking up. It was an affectionate joke in Cair Paravel that if you wanted to hide something from Peter, just place it on the ground and he would never see it. A sharp splash brought Lucy's eyes back to the sea. The mermaids swam from wave to wave, leaping here, and diving there. She squinted her eyes and stepped forward a little more, slipping her hand from Peter's. Now that she looked, it wasn't a very pretty dance, not like the dances she had seen them do in the spring, all twirls and laughter. No, she thought, this dance wasn't pretty at all.

"Peter…" She began, but was cut short as the door to the High King's chamber flew open. A faun, panting and wet, made a quick bow as the two children stepped in from the balcony.

"My king!" He said, in the quiet voice of his kind. His legs were trembling, whether from the rain or from effort, Lucy didn't know.

"Speak, good messenger." Peter replied. His grip tightened on Lucy's hand.

"The merfolk have brought news, your highness, terrible news! They say that there is slaughter in the north, in the seas near the Ettinsmoor. They request your presence, sire."

Peter released Lucy, opening the chest at the foot of his bed, and pulled Rhindon, sheathed, but still gleaming in the faint light from it. He strapped it on, and its presence made him seem king, even though he had only a tunic and lightweight breeches for raiment. "Lead the way, good faun." He knelt quickly in front of Lucy taking both her hands in his. "And you must go to Susan's room. Tell her not to worry."

"But Peter!" She started to protest, but got out no more than that.

Peter and the faun were already gone.

* * *

It was something that Peter would never be used to. The pain of his subjects always left an acrid taste in his mouth and an itch in his hands. It was a constant struggle, keeping them all safe. Instead of getting easier, it simply became harder. Remnants of Jadis's followers were everywhere, and stomping them out was becoming a daunting task. This last year had been spent tracking down hags and werewolves and the like. Most of them were gone from Narnia itself. But the Ettinsmoor was still riddled with deviants, creatures so evil you could almost smell it when you neared them. If it was slaughter the merfolk spoke of, then it was guaranteed to be in the north.

That acrid taste filled his mouth as the faun walked quickly ahead. Peter wished he could run, but it was against the code of nobility that he do so. A pair of centaurs, both female, flanked them silently, a quiet guard for the king. They were away from Cair Paravel now, and close enough to the beach to hear the merfolk. Peter wished he couldn't. It was an awful sound, a haunting mixture of singing and screeching, a funeral dirge of the water. What once had seemed a dance was suddenly a mourning march. The rain, once so gentle, seemed suddenly harsh. Each drop felt like a needle against Peter's skin.

As they came to the beach, another centaur, standing knee deep in the waves, turned and came charging back at them. Peter felt a surge of relief as Oreius inclined his head in a centaurian bow, trampling to a stop. "My king. Jateneu is here. His pod brings evidence of a great tragedy. I will not tell you not to see it, but…it would be wise to use discretion with your siblings, my king. Particularly your sisters."

Peter nodded. The Podleader raised his torso from the water and pulled himself slightly onto the sand, just enough that the water still broke over his fin at each wave. Jateneu was a very large merman, with strong arms and a powerful tail. Two mermaids waited just off the shore. "My king," He said, bowing his head and curling his fin with respect. "I will not waste words. There is no time. My kindred are being massacred in the north. We ask for the protection of Cair Paravel."

Peter kept his face impassive, but inside felt a sickening lurch. An army. They were asking for a defensive strike. "I trust your word, good cousin, but General Oreius spoke of proof."

With nothing more than a sharp whistle from Jataneu, the two mermaids behind him dove. They were gone for only a few seconds before they broke surface again, each struggling with something in their arms. They dragged themselves to Jateneu's side, and Peter had to bite his tongue to keep his stomach calm as they dropped their burdens.

Two mermaids, their beautiful faces contorted, lay lifeless on the sand. But it was only their torsos, for where their shining tails should have begun, there was an empty space, and only a great circle of carnage, bloody and mangled just below their hip bones remained. Peter closed his eyes. Oreius had been right. His sisters could never see this.

Jataneu gave the king a moment before continuing. "My pod left these waters a week ago and traveled north. We hoped to see our kindred, a great pod of nearly a hundred. We found only one alive, and he died on our journey back here. He told us of a great battle, between his kin and creatures of the land. They came in boats with tools of war. They killed them all, taking their tails for meat and discarding the inedible portion back into the ocean. We bring only these two sisters as evidence of the truth. We leave them for you to study and bury." He turned sad, green eyes on the corpses, then met Peter's gaze. "My king, there is an unspeakable evil in the Ettinsmoor. We ask only justice. Farewell, High King. May your judgement be sound." He turned, and with a flick of his powerful tail, was gone. The mermaids followed. The waves were silent again.

Oreius came to Peter's side, staring out into the sea. "Your orders, my king?"

Peter's hand came slowly up from his side to rest on Rhindon't hilt, his fingers tracing the delicate lion's head etched there. He spoke quietly but powerfully. "Wake my brother."

"Your brother, highness?"

"Yes, General." Peter turned curtly on his heel, and Oreius caught a flash of angry determination in his eyes. "We're calling a council of war."

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_Thanks for reading (and reviewing)!_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter! Enjoy this one!_

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Edmund pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and shook his head. "Lion's mane! That many?" 

Peter nodded. "A hundred. That's what they said." Their voices echoed eerily off the stone walls in the throne room, magnifying them a hundred times, forcing any being present to hear them, bringing all eyes to rest on them. It was a constant reminder that they were no longer in charge of only their sisters, or only their friends. They had all of Narnia resting on their shoulders, from the smallest wren to the largest giant; the hard stone of carved thrones pressing into their shoulders kept duty at the forefront of their thoughts. Only Edmund was seated, however. Peter was leaning against the sidearm of Edmund's throne with a curved dagger in his hands (a smaller version of Rhindon; it was a companion piece to the larger sword, a gift from the dwarves of the south), relentlessly polishing the glimmering steel with a cloth. It was force of habit. Aslan had told him in a time of great crisis to clean his sword; in times of great crisis, he continued to do so, although it generally applied to any weapon within reach.

Edmund looked up, putting his hand back into his lap. He surveyed those in attendance. Being the middle of the night emergency, not all the Narnians originally included in traditional war councils were there. The tiger was missing, and a few others, but in reality, the attendance was remarkable. Oreius was there, along with a few of his best soldiers. Birds, the best of spies, hovering in the rafters. A bear and a panther, baring finely toned muscles as they paced. A giant, albeit a small one, had just managed to squeeze himself into the hall, which was, thankfully, very high for this very purpose. Many more magical creatures and talking animals filled the space, a crowd of perhaps twenty.

War councils were traditional, more ornamental than functional, held to allow the most prominent races in Narnia to represent their own opinions. Most present held their tongues. Their interests were well enough represented by their kings.

"So I suppose," Peter continued, not raising his eyes from his work, "The question is why. Intruders on Ettinsmoor land…I can imagine how that would result in something like this. But whatever killed those merfolk did so as an offensive maneuver. They were not stumbled upon, or accidentally found. They were sought out specifically." Edmund nodded. Peter's logic was military in nature, and, as usual, incontestable.

"Good kings…" A ram stepped forward and lowered his powerful horns respectfully.

"Speak, Lord Arend."Edmund said. He knew this particular warrior; it had been this ram who had taught him how to identify approaching messangers by the colors of their banners. A good Narnian, if a little vain.

"Good kings, might the situation be resolved by diplomacy? Surely an emissary might be dispatched?"

He was also new to the court, Edmund noted dryly, weighing the question. "Unfortunately, no, Lord Arend. No emissary can be dispatched because the Ettinsmoor has no government to speak of." Edmund shared a look with Peter. The ungovernable, lawless land of the north had long been a thorn in Narnia's side. Peter hated it because it was a threat to his country; Edmund hated it because it had once been _her _land, and no matter how much it thawed, it would always reek of winter.

"So we have no chance of diplomacy. We have, essentially, two options. Ignore the situation, and hope it was an isolated incident, or…" Peter paused here, and Edmund thought he caught an expression of desperation in his brother's eyes. "We go to war."

The ram bowed again and stepped back. Everyone waited in silence, eyes on the High King, waiting to see which of them he would ask for counsel. The largest among them rose a little taller. The wisest among them tried to look sage-like. The Narnian the High King consulted won immediate honor. So it was a surprise--and yet, not-- to all when Peter turned his head, looked Edmund in the eye and said, "What do you think?"

All attention turned to Narnia's youngest king. Edmund felt uncomfortable under the scrutiny. It reminded him of another time when severe, Narnian gazes had rested on him…

He forced the memory from his mind. Last time, he'd been a traitor; this time, he was King Edmund the Just, and he would not be cowed. The past was past…even if it seemed always at his heels. He looked at his brother. "I think…we should talk alone, Peter." Talking animal and magical creature alike seemed to understand. They filed out slowly, but obediently--although, the stag and the boar seemed a little put out--until at last, only the brothers remained.

Peter sheathed his dagger and crossed to his own throne, settled into it with both arms on their respective sidearms, back straight and gaze unfailingly ahead. Edmund knew what this meant; they were talking as kings. Their discussion was now official. He adopted a matching pose. "Well, Edmund. What do you think?"

"I just want to understand as much of this as I can. What are all the peoples you can think of that live in the Ettinsmoor?"

"Giants, mostly." Peter said.

"Giants," Edmund nodded. "Exactly." He paused here, looking uncertain. "I've been thinking, all this time. Peter, I'm not sure the source of the violence is the Ettinsmoor." Peter felt a stab of pride for his brother. Edmund was blossoming into a young man with a sharp mind, unceasingly logical, able to take any situation and take it apart until he found the source of the argument. Narnians were quickly learning the the High King was and brave and strong and smart enough…but if it was justice and equality they wanted, it was King Edmund that would give it to them. But all the same, the High King was not willing to discredit the word of the merfolk. They had specifically said that their murdered kin had been killed in the seas near the Ettinsmoor, and Peter believed them. If Edmund had a different idea, he would have to stand his ground and prove his point.

"Why not? We both know the Ettins clan isn't particularly clever, but they're not stupid, and they do kill for pleasure." Peter suggested, and wished he could see the expression on Edmund's face that was evident in his tone.

"But that's my point! Those giants kill for pleasure. If that was their intent, why would they bother keeping the tails? And how would the giants get out to sea in the first place? There's no ship I know of that could carry one without sinking."

"The river Shribble is close to the Ettinsmoor. Mefolk can come upriver, if they choose."

"Why would they? A hundred merfolk, going upriver? It's unheard of. The most I've ever heard is four or five, when food runs low in the bay."

Peter, not one for debate, was beginning to lose his patience. "So what do you think is the source, if not the Ettinsmoor?"

"The Wild Lands of the North." A surprised silence was Peter's only response. Edmund, emboldened by his older brother's momentary deliberation, continued. "The White Witch's army was in absolute pieces after her death. We tracked down as many as we could, but when you think about the size of the original army and then the portion from that that died in the battle? It's a large portion, but not the entire army. What's to say part of it isn't still out there? That army's capable of building ships, and capable of this kind of violence."

"And they're reforming in the Wild Lands of the North. It would make sense for them to spread to the Ettinsmoor." Peter shook his head. "I hate to think it, Ed, but you might be right."

They both sat in silence for a moment.

"What do you think?" Edmund said at last.

"War."

Edmund took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I think so too. But I think we both should go."

Peter started. "No."

"Yes. Peter, we're talking about an army, not the rabble we've been fighting here in Narnia for the past year. Our military response has to be just as large and that will take two commanders. And if you tell me no again," Edmund continued, sensing his brother about to speak, "I shall be forced to simply move in a --how do I say it-- "parallel direction" to your army with my own personal force. And you know I will."

Silence. Edmund could almost hear his brother's dilemma. It wasn't as though Peter was overbearing or too overprotective (generally), but he was loathe to put his siblings into any dangerous situation. As far as he was concerned, his siblings, most especially, his brother's blood was more priceless than anything. But Edmund would not be swayed, and Peter knew the threat to follow the High King with his own fighting force was in earnest.

"Alright," Peter said, sounding annoyed. "But you are to obey me when I tell you to do something, understand?"

"That's hardly a change, you bossy thing." Edmund quipped, grateful that he was out of Peter's reach. "Now, we just need to gather the army…"

"Not our entire force. But a large one, because their army's mobile, already on the march to Narnia. Coming from land, probably."

Startled, Edmund's head whipped sideways. "How do you know?"

Peter didn't turn, merely kept looking forward. "Think about it. A hundred merfolk tails. Can you imagine how many beings --as barbaric as it is to think it-- that would feed? And if it wasn't an accident with a giant, what other purpose could there be for that kind of slaughter? And if they're traveling by land, there's nothing that will keep better than fish. Or something like a fish." He shuddered.

"I think you're right. I…I've been in the north. That place is barren and dead, all of it. If more than a few creatures needed food, there'd be nowhere to turn _but _the seas."

"Our conclusion is, then, that there is some kind of malevolent force of substantial size in the Wild Lands, which threatens the safety of Narnia. We'll send out scouts of course, the eagles, maybe, just to be sure. But if our fears are confirmed, Narnia goes to war. We agree. "

"Yes."

"Then it's time we hand down our decision." He stood, keeping his regal posture. Edmund followed suite. If Peter thought it wise to keep the mantle of High King for now, his brother would do the same.

The High King of Narnia left the throne room, with King Edmund the Just close behind.

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It wasn't until the next morning that Peter saw Lucy again. After a long night of writing official decrees and other such trivialities necessary to assemble a Narnian army, Peter was preparing to throw himself back into bed and stay there. Edmund, his own room much farther away, had seen fit to simply share his brother's room for the time being. Their hopes of an easy day's sleep were dashed beyond recognition as soon as they entered. Susan had placed herself on the corner of the bed, a dainty needlepoint in her hands, pulling the thread with calculated coolness. Lucy was pacing, but threw up her hands and rushed to throw her arms around her brothers, catching Peter's leg with one arm and Edmund's with the other.

"Oh, Peter, Edmund…is it true?"

Edmund, exhausted, couldn't grasp her meaning. "Is what true?"

"She means the war." Susan yanked her thread back through the fabric, with a little more force than was necessary.

"Yes. It's true, Lucy." Edmund tousled her hair.

"So are you going away, or Peter?" Lucy looked as though she had just received a slap to her face. Her eyes were watery as she looked up at Edmund, her hair escaping from the gold circlet about her head. Peter's eyes were on his oldest sister, however. Susan looked the very picture of deliberate indifference, but Peter could see the slight sag to her shoulders, and the clumsyness of her usually deft fingers. The brothers shared a look.

"Actually, Lu, it looks like it might just be you and Susan here for a while." Peter said, slipping gently from his sister's grasp, leaving her to collapse into Edmund's arms, her sad little cry of disappointment fading as Edmund scooped her up and headed into the hallway. He gave Peter an encouraging smile and shut the door.

Susan made no sign that she noted Peter's presence, even as he settled onto the bed next to her. Her fingers were still doggedly tracing out the pattern in the cloth with her needle even as he spoke. "What's the matter, Su? And don't tell me off, because you're obviously upset."

In that common feminine way, Susan changed tactics. She slammed the needlework down on the bed beside her and whirled angrily on her brother. "What are you thinking, Peter?" The High King was wise enough to be silent. "What are you thinking, running off to war? And taking Ed with you! You'll break Lucy's heart, you know that." She concluded with an angry sound in the back of her throat. She picked up the needlepoint again and furiously pulled another two stitches through. Peter watched her a moment, then slid closer, slipping his arm around her shoulders.

"I don't think this is about Lucy." Susan's work slowed and stopped. She sat chewing her lip, her hands limp in her lap, the needlework dangling. "Come on now, Su, what's wrong?"

"I just…I'm so frightened, Peter." She reached up and grabbed hold of Peter's hand, which clenched a little tighter around her shoulders.

"Frightened? Of what? Ed and I won't be around, that's true, but it's not like we're leaving Cair Paravel unprotected. In fact, half of the centaur brigade is staying here…"

Susan interrupted him with a choking sob. "Not that, Peter, I know that you wouldn't just leave us here, with no body to look after us…it's…well…oh, you great idiot, can't you understand without me spelling it out for you? I'm worried about you and Edmund!" She laid her head on Peter's shoulder, sniffling. It was a very strange sight, the normally inflappable Susan in such a state.

"Oh, Susan," Peter said, softly. "We'll be alright. You know Oreius won't let anything happen to me, and I won't let anything happen to Ed. We'll come back safe and sound."

"You can't be sure. And what about Narnia? I…I know Aslan made me a queen. But I can't help but feel that…He meant for queens and kings to rule…not just queens. I don't know if I can do it. Lucy's so young. If anything happens, it's up to me to take care of it, and I'm not sure I can." She sat up and pulled away from her brother, looking down into her lap. Her hands were shaking.

Sorrow for his sister's despair dug deep into the High King, and the tear that slid down her cheek seemed to twist the barb all the deeper. He didn't have all the answers, but as a brother, all he could do was try. "Susan," He said, cupping her chin in his hand and forcing her to look up at him. "You think you're the only one who's afraid?" Peter couldn't help a subdued smile. "Su, there are things that scare me everyday. Being afraid is…well, it's a good thing."

"How could it possibly be a good thing?" Susan said, scornfully. Peter ignored it; her anger was directed at herself, not at him.

"Because being afraid is different than being a coward." The oldest queen gave her brother a quizzical look. "You're being afraid _for _someone, you see? The fear you're feeling? It's a sign of your character. You were always the most capable for compassion, Su, always. You remember when we first went to the Professor's house? You mothered us all almost to death!" Susan smiled wanely, encouraged by the smile on Peter's lips. "But you did it because you loved us so much. Even though Ed was a cad, and I was bossy, and Lucy wanted to go home. You stood by us anyway. And you're afraid now, like you probably were then. But now there's more to think about than just me and Ed and Lucy. We've got all of Narnia on our shoulders." Peter squeezed Susan's hand. "I know you're frightened, but you have to let Edmund and me go. You've got all of Narnia to mother now; you'll hardly miss us anyway."

Susan nudged him playfully. "And you really think Lucy and I can handle Cair Paravel on our own?"

"Think about it this way: There are a million children in England. Out of all of them, Aslan chose you to be queen. I think you're quite capable."

And wiping the last of the tears from her face, Susan had to agree.

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	3. Chapter 3

_Oy! I know this one took awhile, but let's face it, fight scenes are HARD. Not writing them, but knowing the subject well enough. I seriously spent two hours on Wikipedia trying to figure out what swords the boys had and how to use them. But here it is now! Enjoy!_

* * *

If there was one thing Edmund had learned about warfare, it was that you could determine the temperment of your opponent by their weapon of choice. It was a system that had never failed. Edmund understood most of his instructors simply by observing them: Oreius carried two arming swords, one strapped to either hip. Smaller than a broadsword (which he also carried, but seldom used), they allowed him maneuverability. He wielded them carefully, but not delicately, never wasting a move, conserving energy. It was parallel to his nature, to think before acting, to prefer a one on one battle to a full blown melee, to be concise in both word and deed. The soldier who understood his enemy could battle against overwhelming odds and still emerge victorious.

Which was why Edmund and his brother were here. The tournament stadium was still in production, unfinished, debris and unfinished walls everywhere. But in the midst of it all, it provided an excellent opportunity to learn. The two of them were _supposed _to be learning how to disguise their temperment by stealth. If the enemy could not see your weapon before you engaged him in battle, Peter had reasoned, he had less time to determine your temperment, and therefore less time to design a strategy aginst you. The entire thing had been Peter's idea, which wasn't surprising, given the rules.

The exercise had been organized in teams, Peter leading one, and Edmund leading the other, with a centaur mare named Cinilla moderating. The object was for both teams to hide themselves in the unfinished stadium, and by utilizing a stealth strategy, engage members of the other team in one on one combat until one team had lost all members, or its leader surrendered. Swords were to be dulled by wrapping them in cloth, so no one was seriously hurt. Backstabbing was not allowed. Stealth, not cowardice, was the lesson's point. It was very much a thing designed by the High King.

Edmund shifted his weight to peer around the large wooden panel he was concealed behind. A faun from his own team had just engaged in a fight against a faun on Peter's team, both creatures the last of their respective sides. Oddly enough, they had struck at the same time, forcing Cinilla to dub them both "dead" and pull them from the field.

Which left only Peter and Edmund.

Edmund groaned, as he watched both fauns follow the mare to sit with their fellow "dead" teammates on the sidelines. Their faces betrayed their excitement. A chance to watch the High King Peter battle was common enough; the same was true for King Edmund the Just. But to watch them battle each other was a welcome rarity.

Slumping back behind the panel, Edmund reviewed his position. He had his weapon of choice, a rapier, as well as an arming sword, somewhat smaller than Rhindon, and also a buckler. The buckler would be his first advantage. Peter's broadsword required both hands to lunge. His buckler would be cast aside to allow him more room to do so, leaving Edmund the more protected of the two. Unfortunately, his rapier was too slender to hold up against Rhindon. He'd have to rely on his arming sword.

He would have considered more pros and contras, but his eye caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye. Peter was close, but seemingly unaware of his brother's presence; he would have called out a challenge by now if he had noticed. Edmund couldn't resist a wicked smile. This was advantage number two, and he intended to use it to its hightest capacity. If he called the challenge, he was allowed to go on the offense first, which would save him a vicious attack from Rhindon. He was wearing mail, but not armor, and although Rhindon was blunted by a leather covering, a good swing from Peter would still leave a horrific bruise.

He saw Peter move again, crouched behind a pile of brick, and made his move. Edmund stood, reveling in his momentary superiority, and called out the simple challenge. "Narnia!" He yelled, pleased that his voice was lower this year than last, which made the call sound substantially more menacing. Peter's face registered shock for a moment, then became utterly enigmatic as he turned, bringing Rhindon to a defensive position.

Edmund charged, keeping his buckler across his chest (Peter's favorite target), his arming sword clenched tightly in his right hand. They had only been a few yards apart to begin with, and the space between them disappeared quickly. The arming sword swept forward in a powerful uppercut, forcing Rhindon to twist downward to catch it, then wrench back up to repel it. Edmund took a step forward, forcing himself closer to Peter. Rhindon allowed for little mobility. If Edmund, with his smaller sword, could get in close, Peter would have no room to lunge or swing, which would render it almost useless. Advantage number three, he thought, using his buckler to ram against his brother's arm, doubtless leaving a bruise. He slammed two more hits against Peter's side with his arming sword. By this point, the High King had been forced back several steps. The Narnians watching made hushed noises of excitement with each blow. So far, the younger king's plan was holding strong. Peter had little room to fight back, aside from the occasional use of his mailed elbow or forearm. But it was in Peter's blood to be a soldier. He had been nigh unbeatable since slaying Maugrim, and it didn't take long for him to determine a new strategy.

Edmund tucked the buckler back against his ribs just in time to deflect a hit from Rhindon's pommel, which forced him back a mere inch. But an inch was enough. Edmund began to feel a twinge of regret for having engaged the older boy at all. There were times when his brother was Peter, and times when he was the High King. This was, unfortunately, one of the latter. With that expressionless look of intense concentration, the High King advanced on his opponent, slamming Rhindon's hilt and pommel against the buckler, forcing Edmund back.

Edmund was by no means small. The last year in Narnia had seen him grow taller and stronger than would have been possible on the old world. But Peter had years to his advantage. His shoulders were beginning to broaden out and his height and weight was still superior to his brother's. He was using his more developed physical strength to land blow after blow on his smaller opponent. Edmund could only defend against the onslaught. A last hit sent him stumbling backwards.

Rhindon was free to swing.

Edmund blocked the first two attacks with the buckler. Peter was pulling his blows a little, for the sake of precaution, but even so, they were agonizingly precise. Edmund's mind raced. The buckler was only wood, and if things continued on like this much longer, Rhindon was bound to crack it. He did a mental scan of his remaining two weapons. The arming sword, a reliable, sturdy weapon, but not nearly long enough to compete with Rhindon's reach…or the rapier. The idea formed quickly from there. He waited for Peter to bring his sword up again, and as soon as the gold lion on Peter's chest was visible, no longer protected by the broadsword, Edmund struck. In one, lightening fast move, he pulled the rapier from its place in his belt and lunged forward, aiming for the heart.

Peter realized his brother's intent a fraction of a second before the blow landed. He twisted his upper body away. The cloth swabbed tip of Edmund's rapier landed, in his upper ribs on the right side of his body.

The Narnians on the sidelines went silent. Cinilla, sounding almost surprised, said, "First blood goes to King Edmund."

"Would you like to surrender now, then?" Edmund panted through his faceplate, returning the fragile rapier to his belt and retrieving his arming sword.

Peter gave a breathless laugh. "Just remember when you're licking your wounds tomorrow that you started it."

Edmund tried to laugh back, but Peter was already coming at him again, and this time, Edmund noted with a twinge of morbid satisfation, he was not pulling blows. It was a silent compliment, a sign that Peter felt that his little brother was capable of handling himself.

Peter's next swing caught the edge of Edmund's buckler and ripped it off his arm. The leather straps stung as they snapped away from his forearm. Both of them now stood with no protection other than their respective swords. The fight, until now, relatively genteel, dissolved into a vicious cycle of slash, parry, swing, lunge.

In the end, it was Peter's experience that gave him the victory. Edmund whirled his sword in a half circle, giving his swing more power, but the older brother knew what that meant. All the younger king's concentration would be on his sword…not on his feet. Peter dropped to a crouch and swept Rhindon across, careful not to actually hurt him, catching the back of Edmund's knees, forcing them to buckle and the younger king to fall. Edmund's next view was of the sky, then Peter standing over him, Rhindon an inch from his throat.

Cinilla's voice rang out loud and clear. "The victory goes to High King Peter."

"Well done, Ed." Said Peter, offering a hand to his brother. Edmund, the breath knocked from his lungs, tried to muster the angriest mock glare he could, but took the hand anyway. He was about to deliver a smoking retort to his brother's chivalry when a screech from above jarred him from his state of mind. He glanced up as Peter pulled him to his feet.

"The eagles." He said, the falsely angry mask he had been wearing melting away to be replaced by a look of anxious excitement. Shielding his eyes with his hands, Edmund could see that the birds that circled overhead were indeed covered in the golden-brown feathering that marked them as part of the most elite sect of Narnian spies.

"They had to have found something to be calling like that." Peter paused, and Edmund noticed he was still shaking with the excitement of battle. "Cinilla," he called. The mare trotted gracefully to his side.

"Sire?"

"I have a task for you."

"Of course."

"Distract my sisters. Keep them occupied. You are Susan's archery instructor, correct?"

"Yes, sire."

"Make her training session longer today, and see to it that Lucy comes with her."

"It will be my pleasure." She bent her forelegs in a respectful centaurian bow and trotted away, shooing the various Narnians who still sat on the sidelines, eliciting a disappointed moan that the duel was over.

"That was a good fight, you know." Peter said, unwrapping Rhindon from its cloth cover and slipping it back into its sheath. His eyes flicked to Edmund and back to his work.

"Well, better on your part than mine." The younger brother felt blood rise to his cheeks. There was some part of him that always felt embarrassed accepting praise fom Peter. He started toward the castle, and heard his brother fall in behind him, hoping Peter wouldn't see the flush on his face.

"Really, Ed. You really only lost because you don't have as much experience."

"Be serious."

"I am."

"You're the best, Peter, everyone knows that. If I ever beat you, it'll be because you're blindfolded with both arms tied behind your back."

There was a brief silence. "You are stealthier. After all, you found me, not the other way around."

Edmund felt a prick of pride. "Well, I am quite good at that. That makes two points in which I demonstrate superiority."

"Two?"

"Stealth, and my ravishing good looks." He sprinted forward toward Cair Paravel, laughing, his sputtering brother at his heels.

* * *

"Report." A rough command, but the eagle seemed to take no offense at the High King's request. Instead, he bowed his head submissively. His voice, when he spoke, was choked and mournful.

"Forgive me, my king. I have failed you."

Edmund gave his brother a confused look. Failure? It was impossible.The eagles had returned faster than expected, and looking hale enough. Peter shrugged his shoulders in response and turned back to the eagle.

"We flew north, sire, for many days, and yet I can tell you next to nothing."

"Nothing?" Edmund interrupted. He furrowed his brow in disbelief.

The eagles all seemed ashamed, now. The first eagle burrowed his head under his wing, hiding his face. Another with long, sharpened talons spoke up. "Yes, sire. We saw the army, and there is a force, but we cannot tell you more."

"We are sorry, my king." The first eagle untucked his head long enough to speak, then thrust it back under his wing in an obvious sign of disgrace.

Peter stood frozen, unsure of what to do. This was not the first occaision that a subject had come to him with his tail drooping between his legs, or her weapons held out in front of her, begging for the High King's forgiveness for a task done wrong. Usually, however, there was no actual forgiveness necessary, as in the instance only a few days ago when a female horse had ambled up to him with her ears drooping and told him that she had failed in her task. The task? To accompany Susan on her morning ride. Her failure? She had been two minutes late. Needless to say, Peter had dismissed her with a smile, and the incident had been soon forgotten. This was the first time when it actually sounded as though a subject actually _had _failed. The reason for the eagles dispatch was to bring back information. If they had not…

He shook his head to clear it. "Nevermind that for now. Tell me what you know." The first eagle brought his head back out of its hiding place, but he kept it respectfully bowed.

"Your suspicions were very correct, your majesties. There was a force, ninety thousand or so strong, perhaps, gathered on the shore, moving slowly south, toward the Ettinsmoor."

"And you see their race, or what they were doing?" Edmund said, his rational and concise nature chafed by the eagles serene report.

"No, sire. I am sorry."

Peter looked dissatisfied. He thumbed Rhindon't hilt. "The attacks on the merfolk must have been under the hand of a competent general. Could you see anyone who looked to be in charge?"

"Alas, no. We did try, but there were archers, hundreds of them. They shot three of our kin."

"I'm sorry." Said Edmund. It distressed him to think that three of these noble creatures had only the Wild Lands for a resting place.

"For Narnia, sire. There is no need to be sorry." The eagle said.

Peter's fingers itched for something to polish Rhindon with. In times of great crisis, he thought, wistfully remembering the expression in Aslan's eyes when he'd given that particular bit of advice. "Forgive me," He said, after a moment. "But it seems that there has been no offense.You have brought us back more information than we had before, and confirmed our suspicions."

"Yes, sire." The eagle paused and took a shuddering breath. "But they…became aware of our origins." His golden eyes sank to the floor. His followers did the same.

"You mean…they knew you were from Narnia?" Edmund bit his lip, torn between disappointment and fear. Disappointed that the eagles, who had been unfailingly perfect spies had chosen this particular moment to slip up, and fear for what their mistake implied. If it truly was Jadis's army, under the direction of a competent leader, their response to the presence of Narnian spies would be immediate…and terrible. And judging by what they had done _before _being provoked…Edmund couldn't fathom the kind of havoc they would wreak now. "How?"

"We flew in pairs, sending only two at a time, thinking that a pair of birds would be a common enough sight that they would take no notice of us. They did, sire. They shot down Metar and Letar, and Hetan later, as they pursued us. We… we all carry your colors, High King, as a part of your army." He lifted one enormous wing, revealing a small patch of fabric nestled in the downy feathers where the wing met the body. It was indeed the red and gold of Peter's crest. "Any creature who was a part of…_Her _army will remember it."

There was a long silence. Then Peter nodded slowly, as though making up his mind about something. "Thank you, my good eagle. You are free to take your leave."

"Yes, your majesty." All three of them stretched their wings and disappeared throught the window, seeming almost disappointed that the High King had not tortured them right then and there for their crime.

"Ninety thousand?" Edmund questioned.

"Larger than I expected."

"Mm."

"I suppose there's only one thing to do, then."

"Tell Oreius to be ready at dawn?"

"Before dawn, hopefully." Peter shook his head. "The eagles really have made a mess of things. We might have gotten another week or two before that army started marching toward Narnia. They're probably already moving, now." His eyes drifted to the window, up into the blue of the sky.

"What are we going to do about them?"

"I don't know. I hate to punish them, they've already lost three of their comrades, but you know birds. They aren't going to let it go. You remember the time that poor little swallow accidently flew into you? We ignored the whole thing, and she started to pull her feathers out."

"She thought because we didn't punish her, we meant for her to punish herself." Edmund snorted. "Narnians are still stuck in the same mindset about monarchy they had when Jadis was calling herself queen."

"They are indeed." Peter straightened up. "I suppose I'll see you at supper, Ed."

"Where are you going?"

Peter's eyes left the sky and dropped down the pommel of his sword, a lion's head, mouth open in what could be either a war cry or a gentle smile, and seemed to change by the hour. After all, it didn't symbolize a _tame _lion.

"To pray." He said, and swept out of the room.

* * *

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